Odd Fish
by coffeebuddha
Summary: Spencer Reid moved to the small cow town of Beayue, Texas a few months ago in an attempt to run from his problems, but things take a sour turn when he ends up being accused of murder. Old West AU. On temporary hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

The saloon is nearly empty when Spencer pushes through the swinging doors at a little before noon, sits at a small table in a window framed corner, and waves at David Rossi, who's standing behind the bar polishing a spotty glass with a filthy rag. He nods shortly in acknowledgment and leans in the direction of the kitchen to holler, "The doc's here early, Harris. You wanna throw together his usual?"

There's a muffled affirmative from the back room and Rossi nods at Spencer again, then wanders down to the end of bar to pour another drink for Aaron Hotchner, who looks like he hasn't moved from his bar stool since Spencer was here nearly twelve hours ago. Hotchner cradles the drink in his hands and stares stonily into it's depths. After a long moment, he shoots it back and shoves the empty glass toward Rossi with a curt 'Another.' Rossi frowns, but refills the glass, his head bowed close to the other man's as he murmurs something that Spencer can't quite make out.

The low hum of hushed voices and the soft tinkling of the piano player absently fingering keys in the back of the room wash over Spencer, soothing and comfortable, as he thumbs through his book. The stale, dusty air would have been stifling even a few months ago, but the lingering smell of alcohol and unwashed bodies is, well, not pleasant, but certainly familiar. The words he's reading start to blur together and every few seconds his body jerks sharply as he blinks the sleep from his eyes. By the time Harris finally wanders over to his table, Spencer's given up all pretense of reading and is sitting with his head propped up on his fist, his eyelids heavy and his mouth slack.

Harris clears his throat as he puts a plate of stringy, gray meat and crumbling potatoes on the table. Spencer has no idea how the young man got a job as a cook when his go to recipe seems to be 'put it in a pot and boil it for a while', but he genuinely likes him and the kid is one of the few people in town who seems to look at him with admiration instead of bafflement or derision.

Even in a town that often seems to be composed entirely of black sheep, Spencer knows he's considered something of a 'character'. He has been ever since he arrived on the stage coach from back east with a trunk of books, no interest in drinking, and little skill with a firearm. Probably the only thing he's actually managed to do right is clean up at the poker table. But even that's a small comfort-albeit a small comfort that keeps food on his table and a roof over his head-considering how wrong his initial game had nearly gone. All the things that he'd hoped to find out here-adventure, danger, maybe a little romance-are certainly available, but they still seem no more attainable than they did when he was sitting in a stuffy classroom in Virginia.

He offers Harris a groggy smile as he prods the meat with his fork. Is it supposed to wiggle like that? "Thank you, Nathan. It looks as appealing as ever."

Harris smiles, not much more than a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth, and shifts from foot to foot. "Anything else I can get for you, doc?"

Spencer chews doggedly on a tough mouthful of what he thinks might be beef. Harris is giving him an expectant look, so he swallows, the meat a hard, painful lump as it goes down his throat. "I could do with a cup of Arbuckle's." He says. Even Harris smirks at the way the slang tumbles awkwardly out of his cultured mouth. Spencer frowns a little and spears a potato that falls apart before he can get it off the plate. "In the biggest mug you have. Or maybe you could just bring the entire pot."

Another smile flickers across Harris' face and he hurries back to the kitchen. Spencer finally manages to lift a forkful of potatoes to his mouth and immediately finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that the boarding house he's been staying at would serve lunch in addition to breakfast and dinner. Of course, considering the steely smile and veiled threat about how he might want to start looking for a new place to sleep that Miss Emily had given him the last time he'd said anything about how she could improve her services, Spencer doubts he'll ever actually make the suggestion.

Spencer's drinking the grainy dregs of his coffee and pushing the mutilated remains of his lunch around his plate when a heavy footstep and the metallic jingle of spurs makes him look up. A wide, involuntary smile immediately spreads across his face, and the flip flops his stomach is doing have nothing to do with the poor meal he just ate. "Hello, Sheriff. I thought you were supposed to be in meetings with Mayor Strauss all day?"

Sheriff Morgan grimaces and drops easily onto one of the chairs at Spencer's table, one arm hooked over the back of the chair and his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He sighs and motions to Rossi, who grabs a bottle and glass and heads their way, before answering. "I'd be surprised if Mayor Strauss could stomach an entire day with Mayor Strauss. I don't know why I'm meeting with him anyway. Everyone knows his wife's the one who really runs the town. Thank you, Rossi," Morgan says as he takes the half full glass from the older man. "You can leave the bottle."

Rossi smirks and says, "Long day, Derek?"

"Long enough." Morgan drains the glass and pours himself a couple more fingers of whiskey. He takes a slow sip and rolls his neck to loosen his tense muscles. "You sure you don't want the job back?"

Rossi's laugh fills the room and he shakes his head, already walking back toward the bar. "Nah, I'll leave that to you, kid. Figure my prospects are better as a bar dog. I still get shot at regularly, but at least the pay's halfway decent."

Spencer chuckles and Morgan turns back toward him, a bemused half smile on his face. "And how about you, Dr. Reid? Would you like to take over for me?"

Spencer snorts. "Do you want me to end up dead?" He drums his fingers on the cover of his book and arches an expectant eyebrow at Morgan, who raises his hands in mock surrender. "Now if you wanted to ask Miss Emily to be the new sheriff, that would be a whole other matter. She'd probably have everyone obeying the law within a week."

"She's certainly a formidable woman," Morgan says with a grin. He snags a bit of meat off of Spencer's plate, pops it in his mouth, and grimaces. "That bait's plumb awful."

"It's also really not yours." Spencer manages to arrange his features into a mock stern expression instead of the fond one he can feel wanting to break through. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to focus on Morgan's mouth as he licks a bit of gravy off of his thumb. "So, if you're not going to be tied up with Strauss for the rest of the day after all, does that mean you'll be available at the usual time to finish our game?"

"Barring a catastrophe, I should be free then. I have to warn you, though. I read that book you lent me, and I think there's a very real chance that I might actually get within a few moves of taking your king this time," Morgan says with a wink. Spencer's shoulders shake with a silent laugh and he tucks his book under his arm.

"I look forward to the challenge. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to," he says with a slight tilt of his head toward Morgan. Morgan taps the brim of his hat and languidly stands.

"Of course. I'll just go sit with Hotch and see if he can't help me finish this off," he says, gesturing toward the bar with the whiskey bottle. When he gets a better look at Hotchner, gray faced and slumped forward with his head nearly resting on his clenched hands, he frowns and taps the neck of the bottle. "Christ, how long has he been jingled?"

Spencer gnaws thoughtfully on his lower lip, then shrugs. "I couldn't say. He was here before I came in. Honestly, I'm not convinced he hasn't been here since last night.

Morgan's frown deepens and he gives Hotchner a troubled once over. "Maybe I'll just help him home instead."

"Until later, Sheriff," Spencer says quietly to Morgan's back as he crosses the room to speak with Hotchner. He watches the two men interact for a few seconds, then shakes himself and leaves. He wanders down the raised wooden walkway, no real destination in mind. It wasn't exactly a lie when he told Morgan that he has business to take care of, because he does, but there's nothing exactly pressing about the pages of formulas waiting for him in his room.

Spencer isn't exactly certain what he had thought would happen when he decided to move out west, but there had been a small part of him that had secretly hoped and prayed that being out in the wilderness, surrounded by manly men doing the sorts of things that manly men do would help to squelch the unnatural thoughts and feelings that had plagued him more and more vehemently as of late. It didn't take a genius to understand that the warm, fluttery feeling he'd first felt in the pit of his stomach when one of his classmates had grinned crookedly at him wasn't quite 'right'. While his chums were busy trying to steal a kiss from any of the pretty young things that attended the girl's school down the street, Spencer had been courting danger by mooning over his much older, very male psychology tutor.

Mr. Gideon had never said anything during their sessions, but not much ever seemed to escape his attention, so when he'd clasped Spencer's shoulder and carefully told him that he was getting to an age where he should go out and meet a nice girl, Spencer hadn't been surprised. Mortified and a little crushed, yes, but not surprised. And he'd taken the older man's advice to heart. He'd escorted Miss Lila Archer from party to party for an entire season, listened attentively to her stories, laughed awkwardly at her jokes, and even chastely kissed her once when they'd found themselves briefly alone together in a mutual friend's garden.

She was lovely and refined and his mother was delighted to the point where she was dropping hints about how charming a spring wedding would be, but it just...hadn't felt right. No, it hadn't felt like anything at all. There was no spark, no rush, no need. Just a pretty, friendly face that he'd felt affection, but no romantic longing for.

Lila had been the one to finally end things. She'd gently cupped his cheek on the steps outside of her house, smiled sadly, and said, "This just isn't going to work, is it."

"No," Spencer agreed. "It isn't." He'd kissed her hand, then her cheek, and left. Like Gideon, Lila had never actually said anything, but Spencer thinks she must have suspected, even with as young and naive as she was, that there was something off about him.

Spencer snaps out of his thoughts just in time to avoid colliding with Ms. Jennifer "JJ" LaMontagne. She's talking with a youngish man that he doesn't recognize, her soft, intelligent voice shooting out rapid questions that he struggles to keep up with, her pencil hovering over the pad of paper in her hand. The man looks a little relieved when Spencer's unexpected stumble into their conversation causes her to pause and turn her bright eyes on him. "Ah, Spencer! Have you met the new reverend yet?"

He glances at the light haired stranger she's been talking to, who shifts and clears his throat uncomfortably. The man's cheeks are flushed and there's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, even though it's a fair enough day. He looks like he would be hard pressed to inspire himself, much less an entire congregation, but Spencer plasters on a smile and says, "No, I don't think I have."

Delighted, JJ hooks her arm through Spencer's and pulls him closer so that they form a tight little circle. "Reverend, this is Dr. Spencer Reid. He's not the town's medical doctor, but considering Dr. Dowd's bedside manner, you might want to see Dr. Reid if you develop any ailments anyway. Spencer, this is the new minister, just arrived from Georgia, Tobias Hankel."

Hankel clasps Spencer's hand in a weak, damp grip and offers a wan smile. "A pleasure, I'm sure, Doctor."

* * *

Derek curses silently to himself and loops a steadying arm under Hotch's arms to keep him from falling flat on his face as they stumble the half mile from the saloon to his small house. He knows that Hotch hasn't been the same man ever since the Unfortunate Incident-as the ladies around town call it-but slowly destroying himself with alcohol isn't going to change or help anything. He wants to be supportive, but watching a man he had always respected more than anyone else turning into a shadow of the man he had once been makes his stomach churn and his heart clutch. At first, he had seemed to be holding up fairly well and the drinking only happened around the anniversary, but as the years passed and leads dwindled and justice still evaded his grasping hands, Hotch's eyes had grown more and more haunted and the times in between his drinking binges shrank until they were almost nonexistant.

Hotch hiccups and trips over his own feet again, nearly dragging Derek down with him. Derek staggers and somehow manages to keep the both of them from ending up in the dirt, but when he tries to take a step forward, Hotch doesn't move with him. He pauses, frowns, turns toward the other man. "Hotch? It's only a little further. Think you can do me a favor and wait to throw up?"

The look on his friend's face keeps Derek from saying anything more. His face is blanched of color, his eyes wide, and his mouth open in a small, startled 'o'. Derek follows Hotch's gaze back into the alley they're stopped in front of and freezes. Less than a dozen feet from where they're standing, half concealed by rubbish, is the bloody, mutilated body of a little boy.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Feedback is overwhelmingly appreciated.**

**Old West Slang:**  
Arbuckle's - Slang for coffee, taken from a popular brand of the time.  
Bait - food  
Bar dog - bartender  
Jingled - drunk  
Odd fish - A person who is eccentric or odd in his manners. Also called odd stick and queer fish.  
Plumb - Entirely, completely.

Nothing belongs to me.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek's arm slowly falls from around Hotch and he takes a jerky step forward, dimly aware that the other man has sunk to his knees behind him.

"Oh God, please, not again. No. No, no, no," Hotch chants brokenly. Any other time, Derek would willing be at his side to help him with whatever internal demons he's fighting, but Hotch's breakdown will have to wait.

Now that he's noticed the boy-It's the Jenkins boy, his brain absently supplies. Little Riley Jenkins.-the smell of the body hits him. It's mingled with the odor of the rotten vegetables that are scattered over his body and a fresh pile of manure nearby, but the cloying, coppery scent of blood is heavy underneath it and makes him swallow thickly and nearly take a step back. He pulls a worn, stained hankerchief out of his pocket, presses it over his nose and mouth, and forces himself to move forward until he's right next to the broken body. The dirt around Riley is dark and tacky and sticks to Derek's boots when he steps in it.

Fat black flies swarm lazily around the boy, clustered thickest around his midsection where his once off-white shirt is ripped open down the front and stained rust red from the blood-the torn fabric is stuck, matted to his unnaturally pale skin by it. Derek flaps a hand at the flies and they drift away just long enough for him to see the deep, neat stab wounds to his abdomen. His stomach is crusted with blood, some of which is already starting to flake off, and in the wounds themselves the blood looks congealed, almost jelly-like.

There are odd marks around his mouth and, when Derek leans in closer, he can see several tiny red dots on his otherwise ashen face. His eyes are still open-filmy, bloodshot, discolored, and staring blankly into the distance-and it's not until Derek reaches out to close them that he notices his hands are shaking.

"Sheriff? Is there something amiss?"

Derek tenses, because the tone of Miss Emily's voice makes it more than clear she knows very well that something's not right and she's merely asking as a matter of course. He look over his shoulder just in time to see her catch a glimpse of Riley. Her dark eyes go wide with shock and horror and her already fair complexion goes ashen. For a moment he's worried that she'll faint and give him another problem to deal with, but, after a long second, she pulls herself together and nods smartly.

"Right. You have your hands full here, so why don't I see that Mr. Hotchner makes it home safely?" Miss Emily asks. Her tone sounds off, but it's still remarkably steady, and Derek feels a sudden burst of admiration for her. A formidable woman, indeed.

"I would certainly appreciate it." Derek roughly rubs a hand over his face. "Do you know the way?"

Miss Emily shoots him a look she usually reserves for occasions like when a tenant requests an extension on their bill and leans down to gently help Hotch back up on his feet. "I think I can manage," she says flatly.

Derek nods absently, his mind already lost in trying to figure out what he's going to tell Leroy and Martha Jenkins.

* * *

Aaron had only let Miss Emily hold onto his arm for a few steps before he pulled way with a sharp, "I can walk on my own." She'd arched an eyebrow at him a few times when he'd stumbled and nearly fallen, but she hadn't actually said anything.

When they reach his front door, Miss Emily stops him with a hand on his forearm and, suddenly looking a little concerned, asks, "Are you certain that you will be all right on your own?"

Aaron yanks his arm away and glares at her. "I'll be fine," he says between clenched teeth. "I certainly don't need you mothering me."

She blinks, but doesn't seem phased by his rudeness. "If you say so, Mr. Hotchner. I'm sure you know what's best."

His hands are clumsy on the lock, the doorknob, but after a couple of tries he manages to get the door open and, with a dismissive wave to Miss Emily, he escapes into the dim, almost claustrophobic sanctuary of his tiny house. Despite the slovenly state of his personal appearance, the few rooms he occupies are obsessively tidy with everything in its place. Not that there's much to put in it's place. He slumps down onto the stool next to a small, scarred table, and lays his forehead on its cool surface.

There's a bottle of Sheepherder's Delight in the battered cabinet next to his potbellied stove. It's raw, lethal stuff, but his need to block out the last half hour or so has him back on his feet and pulling out the bottle before he even realizes he's doing it. The first mouthful nearly chokes him, burning the soft tissues of his mouth and throat as it goes down.

He's only taken a couple of sips when there's a firm, persistant knock on his door. It's the sort of knock that boldly proclaims 'I know you're in there and I'm not leaving until you open up and make me, so why don't you quit wasting both our time and just answer the damn door already'. Aaron slams the bottle down on the table and yanks the door open with a rough, "What?"

Penelope Garcia eyeballs him, apparently as unperturbed by his temper as Miss Emily had been, and tilts her head inquisitively at him. "Now, Aaron, is that really any way to speak to a guest," Penelope purrs.

Her carefully made up face is arranged in its usual cheerful expression, but underneath her practiced mask is a hint of concern. She brushes past him into the room, her garish, scandalously short skirts grazing his calf. After a moment, he shuts the door and watches her glance around the room, although they both know it's unchanged from the last time she was here. Finally, she turns back to him, her expressive eyes wide with affected demureness. "I thought you might be in the mood for some company."

Aaron leans back against the closed door and massages the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "You thought wrong. If that was all?" He asks, pushing away from the door.

Penelope sashays over and presses up against him. Her nose wrinkles a little when she smells the alcohol on him, but she just smiles wider, moves closer. "You're going to hurt my feelings if you act like that, my gruff grizzly bear."

"Penelope." The feel of her lush body against his is comforting, and that realization makes his stomach churn with cold queasiness. He sidesteps around her to get at his bottle. Before he can drink any, Penelope circles around him and snags it. She sniffs the mouth of the bottle delicately and makes a show of studying the label. Aaron uses what little self control he has left to stop himself from snarling at her as he snatches the bottle back. "What are you doing here?"

"Such a lapper," Penelope says, her voice as teasing as her smile, but the concern in her eyes as she watches him take a long swallow is even more pronounced. "I saw Emily Prentiss on the street a few minutes ago. We got to jawing and she told me about the Jenkins boy. I just-"

"It's not your concern," Aaron says shortly. "Why don't you go play with your baubles and beads? Distract yourself from the unpleasantness."

"The way you distract yourself," she asks, eyeing the whiskey bottle. Her smile is still fixed in place, but it's flatter, less bright than it was before. "A little boy was murdered, Aaron. You can't tell me that that doesn't get to you, doesn't effect you, especially after Haley and Jack-"

"Don't," Aaron cuts her off again, his dark eyes flashing. "I'm fond of you, Penelope, but you're overstepping yourself. Don't talk about them."

"Aaron," Penelope says softly, "Look at what you're doing to yourself, sugar. Do you really think Haley would want this?"

"Stop it! Don't say her name. I don't want someone like you saying her name!" Aaron yells. There's a sharp crack and its not until he lifts his hand to take another drink that he realizes he's thrown the bottle. Shards of glass litter the floor and amber colored liquid drips down the rough wooden wall behind Penelope. A few inches to the right and it would have hit her, but she doesn't seem to notice. Instead, all of her attention is fixed on Aaron.

"Someone like me," she says lowly, her smile dropping for the first time since he opened the door. Her eyes narrow dangerously as she advances toward him. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?"

"Penelope," Aarons starts weakly, but she cuts him off before he can continue.

"Perhaps I'm not as godly and pure as your precious Haley, but I will not have you or anyone else forgetting that I'm a lady. It may have escaped your attention, Mr. Hotchner, but there aren't a whole lot of people left who care a lick about you, and most of those who do like me better these days. I would hate for you to have a falling out with them because you couldn't stop yourself from making insinuations about my reputation." Her footsteps are as steady and even as her voice, and the smart 'clip' of them seems unnaturally loud in Aaron's ears.

"I am not some whore, and I won't have you talking to me like I am. I'm here because, for some reason I don't quite know myself right now, I care for you. It might do you well to remember that and stop attitudinizing. You're no better than me, Mr. Hotchner." Penelope's standing right in front of him, just barely not touching him, with her hands on her hips and her chin lifted challengingly. She's clearly waiting for him to say something, and after a long pause, Aaron clears his throat.

"No, you're better than I could ever be, Penelope." His voice is soft, softer than he had meant it to be, and even he can hear the pain in it. "You're as classy a lady as I've ever met, and I apologize."

Her angry expression melts, but the new look on her face is almost worse. Aaron can't, won't put a name to it, although it isn't unfamiliar. It makes his chest swell and the bottom of his stomach drop. It's dangerous is what it is, and, not for the first time, he ignores it, opting instead to lean down and kiss Penelope until she's clinging to him and the only thing he can see in her eyes is a coy, slightly dazed wanting. Her painted lips curve into a wanton smile and she captures his wrists in her small hands.

"Apology accepted, sweet cheeks. But I think you might still need to make it up to me a bit," she says with a grin as she walks backwards toward his bedroom, pulling him along with her.

* * *

Spencer lingers near the door of the jail and checks his pocket watch for the third time in the last five minutes. He fidgets, nervously cleaning his wire rim glasses, and wonders what could be keeping Sheriff Morgan. Nothing really seems to be out of the ordinary, although he had noticed a few clusters of people talking in hushed tones earlier. Maybe something had gone wrong and Morgan was busy taking care of it? He checks his watch again and wonders whether he shouldn't just go.

"Dr. Reid! I've got a bone to pick with you!" Spencer jumps at the loud shout. The voice is familiar, although the amount of anger helps to disguise it's owner, and Spencer frowns as he tries to place it.

He turns just in time to see the fist headed straight toward his face.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Feedback is overwhelmingly appreciated.**

To clarify, yes, Garcia is a saloon girl at Rossi's place. Most people seem to think that women who worked in saloons were prostitutes, but they usually weren't. They were there to keep men entertained-keep them company, dance with them, flirt a little, serve drinks, etc. While they were certainly considered less respectable by a lot of other women, most of them were just doing what they had to do to earn a wage. There would have been some cross over, of course, but most saloon girls looked down on prostitutes and wanted nothing to do with them. Ironically, they could usually make more money by flirting and selling drinks than they could have by selling their bodies.

**Old West Slang:**

Attitudinize - To assume an affected attitude.

Jawing - talking  
Lapper - A hard drinker  
Reckoning up - Talking about something or someone in a slanderous manner.  
Shack - A vagabond, a low fellow.

Sheepherder's Delight - cheap whiskey


	3. Chapter 3

Pain. That's the first thing Spencer becomes aware of as he regains consciousness. At first it's just an overwhelming, all encompassing ache, but after a few minutes he's able to start breaking it down to it's different components. His back is stiff and sore from the hard surface he's lying on. There's a sharp throb in his ankle, familiar enough from when he was fifteen and fell down a flight of stairs because he was too absorbed in his book to look up while he was walking. Sprained then? The worst of it is in his face. When he touches the bridge of his nose, where his glasses had been sitting, his fingers come away sticky with mostly dried blood. But that's nothing compared to the pain radiating from his right eye. The flesh there feels tender, swollen, and when he finally opens his eyes, he can only see a sliver of light with it.

He groans and rolls over, right over the edge of the bench he was laid out on. His arms break his fall enough that he doesn't do any more real damage to himself, but he stays on the filthy, stone floor for a few more minutes while he tries to swallow the nausea he can feel rising in his throat. It's only when he pushes up onto his hands, falters, and ends up leaning against a wall of cold iron bars that he finally starts to take in his surroundings. Through the bars, he can see the small, tidy portion of the jail that Morgan mockingly refers to as his office, which makes his blood run cold, because if the office is on that side of the bars, then that means he's on the wrong side. Worry turns to panic when he feebly tugs on the jail cell door and it doesn't move.

The bars scrape roughly at his smooth hands as he hauls himself to his feet. He hisses when he puts too much weight on his twisted ankle. Pain shoots up his leg and he sags to the side, leaning against the stone wall. His mouth is dry and sticky, and when he tries to speak it comes out sounding more like a toad croaking than actual words. Spencer bites down on his tongue hard enough that his mouth starts to water. He swallows and tries to say something again.

"Hello? Sheriff Morgan?" The words sound faint and scratchy, but they're audible and coherent, which are the important things. Even better, they cause a small flurry of activity behind Morgan's desk. There's a thud and muffled yelp as someone bumps their head against the underside of the heavy, wooden desk. Spencer's eyebrows shoot up when Reverend Hankel emerges, rubbing the top of his head with a grimace. "Reverend? What is going on?"

Hankel dust himself off, blinks owlishly at Spencer, and holds up an old, tarnished pocket watch. "I was fetching my watch from under the sheriff's desk. The chain's broken and I'm forever dropping the thing."

Spencer gives Hankel a bemused look and says, "Yes, but why am I lock in a cell? Why did Leroy Jenkins hit me? And where is the sheriff?"

"Oh!" Hankel flushes and fumbles in his pocket for a small bottle. He takes a small sip and smacks his lips nervously. "I suppose that those are more pressing matters. My apologies. I should have-" he cuts himself off and clears his throat. "Right, right. The Jenkins' little boy. What's his name? Roger? Robert?"

"Riley," Spencer cuts in impatiently. Where in tarnation did they find this man? "His name is Riley. What does that have to do with me?"

"Riley," Hankel says slowly, as if he's testing out the name. Rolling it around on his tongue to get the feel and weight of it right. "Yes, Riley. The poor boy was found in an alley earlier today. He was, um, no longer among the living." Hankel shifts and his discomfort is so obvious that Spencer briefly wonders how he'll ever manage to conduct a funeral before the meaning of what he's said hits him.

"He's dead?" Spencer asks. He hadn't known the boy well, but they'd talked a few times. Riley had been a bright, inquisitive child and Spencer had been fond enough of him to offer to teach him chess during their last conversation. "What happened?"

Hankel rocks up onto the balls of his feet, then back down on his heels as he takes another sip from his bottle. The contents seem to steady him a little and he frowns solemnly at Spencer. "He was stabbed, God rest his soul. Murdered in cold blood, from the looks of it. Mr. Jenkins seems to think you had something to do with the whole sad affair."

Spencer balks and grips the bars so tightly that his knuckles go white. "They think I killed him?"

"Well, Mr. Jenkins thinks so." Hankel fiddles with his pocket watch and leans back against Morgan's desk. "No one else seems to believe that you have the stomach to kill someone. Or at least not like that."

"If no one believes I'm the murderer, then why am I locked in a cell," Spencer asks, resisting the urge to grind his teeth. If he hadn't had a headache before, trying to get answers out of Hankel would have surely given him one. "And why are you here with me? Where's Sheriff Morgan?"

Hankel starts to take another sip, then pauses and slips the bottle back into his coat pocket, patting it through the dusty fabric. "The sheriff said that even if he doesn't think you killed the boy, he still has to consider it as an option. Although he said that he'd let you out of the cell as soon as he came back from asking people if they'd seen anything. Right now you're mostly in there to keep Mr. Jenkins from trying to hurt you any more. It's really for your own protection. That's why I'm here as well. The sheriff reckoned that, even with as upset and out for blood as he is, Mr. Jenkins wouldn't hurt a man of the cloth to get to you."

"Right," Spencer says slowly. Clearly Morgan hasn't spent much time talking with Hankel. Even Spencer's a tiny bit tempted to throw something at the man, although he has absolutely nothing to gain from it. Hankel's still talking, but Spencer ignores him in favor of hobbling back over to the cell's single narrow bench. He slumps down on it and buries his face in his hands. Morgan will get him out of this. He has to. It's what he does.

Spencer's first day in Beayue had nearly been his last. He'd been lucky enough to find a cheap, clean room at the town's one boarding house, but after he'd gotten directions to the saloon from the man at the desk, things had started to go down hill. The men at the poker table had been happy enough to have him join their game, so long as they could poke fun at his fussy clothes and almost overly refined habits. Next to them with their sturdy, practical clothing and rough, manly mannerisms, he was an oddity. And a harmless, amusing one at that.

Or at least he had been until he'd won a round. After that, atmosphere at the table had become more tense, more serious. The mood had become increasingly hostile with each hand that Spencer won until one of the men couldn't seem to take it anymore. Jacob Dawes jumped to his feet, his gun drawn and steady on Spencer, and roared thunderously, "You've been cheating! I don't know how you're doing it, but it's the only way you could possibly have won every hand you've played. Not even the devil has that sort of luck, boy."

Spencer eyed the gun nervously. Statistically speaking, getting shot at usually wasn't too worrisome of a prospect. Guns were so inaccurate that the chances of actually getting hit were slim, but he wasn't about to tell Dawes that. Besides, at this close of a range, his chances of getting hit increased significantly. He swallowed and wondered if anyone would bother to notify his parents of what had happened to him when a large black man suddenly appeared, almost as if by magic, with a scowling, voluptuous saloon girl right on his heels.

He clapped a companionable hand on Dawes' shoulder and flashed a predatory smile with more teeth than was strictly necessary. "Miss Penelope said that you folks are having a spot of trouble over here. Now, Jacob, I know you pride yourself on your poker playing, but has it occurred to you that maybe the boy is just better?"

"This ain't any of your business, Morgan," Dawes growled. "Why don't you run along and leave us decent people to handle our own matters?"

Morgan's grin widened and went flinty. His fingers tighten on the other man's shoulder until Dawes was wincing. "Now, you've got to look at things from my perspective, Dawes. You're about to start disturbing the peace, which would make a mess that I'd have to clean up. All I'm trying to do is make sure that that mess doesn't get made in the first place. You understand?"

Dawes grumbled something incoherent, scraped up his meager pile of money off the table, and stalked to the far end of the bar. Morgan turned toward Spencer and his smile turned friendly. "You okay there, stranger?"

In the years since Gideon's indirect rejection, Spencer had built up his defenses. He was friendly enough with people, but rarely let them close. Never let them close enough to effect him. It's safer to keep a distance. Lonely, yes, but so much safer. But when Morgan smiled at him, Spencer felt a thrill go through his body, like a limb tingling and prickling back to life after it's fallen asleep. His cheeks warmed and he didn't quite know what to do with his hands and he was smiling wider than he had in longer than he could remember.

"Yeah," he said, even as he pressed his palms against his thighs to stop their trembling. "I'm fine."

Spencer's so lost in his memories that he doesn't realize that Hankel's left and Morgan's returned until the rough scrape of metal on metal rouses him from his thoughts. Morgan pockets the cell key as he moves to Spencer's side. His hand is comforting when it lands heavy and warm on Spencer's shoulder, but his face is drawn and his eyes lack their usual spark of laughter. "Dr. Reid," he says in a hushed tone. "I hate to do this, but I'm going to have to ask you some questions. We found something of yours on the boy."

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**Thank you for reading! Feedback is overwhelmingly appreciated.**

Oddest advice I've ever gotten from a voice teacher: If your throat gets dry while you're performing and you can't get a drink, bite your tongue because it will make you salivate and you can swallow that. It actually works. It's saved my butt a few times.


	4. Chapter 4

Diana Reid had always told Spencer that it was the little moments, those small, forgettable instances, that really shape a life. You decide to stop for a drink at a new cafe and meet the person you end up marrying. An overheard conversation in a library might change your political and religious beliefs. Taking an extra five minutes of deliberate on which jacket to wear can start a chain of events that will cause a major turning point in your life.

Spencer doesn't agree. To him, the small, forgettable instances are exactly that. The turning points in his life are major, shattering moments. Gideon telling him to meet a nice girl. Lila telling him that it wasn't going to work. Him telling his parents that he was boarding the next train out west. Penelope fetching Morgan and saving his life. "We found something of yours on the boy."

Spencer's breath is caught in his throat, choking him until his eyes smart with tears, and he forces it out with a loud whoosh and pulls it back in with a shudder. His chest tightens and his fingertips feel cold when he takes the scrap of fabric that Morgan's holding out to him. It's a small, white square, plain except for the curly, swirling S.R. embroidered at the corner. Spencer traces the initials with a shaking finger and nods at Morgan's questioning look.

"It's mine," he says after a long silence. He's sitting on a low, hard wooden chair, so short that he's almost folded up on himself, and Morgan's perched on the edge of his desk, towering over him. A frantic desperation claws at his chest when Spencer looks up at him, and he rushes forward, trying to explain.

"It doesn't mean anything. You know that, right? I'm always losing or loaning out my hankerchiefs. I've probably left half a dozen in Rossi's alone. Anyone could have left this at the murder scene, Morgan." He leans forward in his chair, his knees nearly against his chest, and twists the thin cotton between his hands so that he won't reach out for Morgan. "I didn't kill anyone. I didn't even know what had happened until Reverend Hankel told me, and that's the honest truth."

Morgan just stares at him and Spencer measures the achingly long stretch of time by the heartbeats pounding in his ears. Finally, Morgan sighs and nods. "Look, I believe you, kid, but you have to look at this from my side too. I've got a dead boy and only one lead."

Spencer blinks hard and stares at his scuffed, dirty shoes. "If you're good at your job, you'll find another one."

He hears Morgan exhale loudly, but doesn't look up, though he does jump a little when Morgan kneels in front of him. Only a little.

Morgan's fingers are firm and solid around Spencer's wrists. He feels suddenly fragile, as if with one dismissive flick or harsh word, Morgan could shatter him to pieces. Unaware of the power that he has over Spencer, Morgan leans closer. Close enough that Spencer can easily see the fine lines around his eyes. He wants to reach out and trace them, somehow absorb the story that they tell. He would, except that his hands are still held captive in Morgan's grip.

"Dr. Reid," Morgan says. He pauses, then says more intensely, "Spencer, I'm trying to help you here. I want to help you. But I can't do that unless you let me. I need you to tell me the truth. Why are you here?"

Spencer licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry again. His eyes flicker to the side and he asks, "What do you mean?"

Morgan's grip tightens a little and Spencer's eyes dart back to his face, quickly taking in his tense features. There's a line between his eyebrows and Spencer wants to smooth it down. He blinks and wonders that some part of himself is still managing to get caught up in a meaningless infatuation when he might be swinging from a rope in the very near future.

"What I mean is that you're out here hiding from something." Morgan's voice snaps Spencer back to the conversation and he forces himself to listen. "It didn't matter much before because most all of us here have something we'd rather forget about. Besides, we like you well enough that we're not going to risk running you off by pressing for answers you're not wanting to give. Reckon a man's got a right to a few secrets. But when lives are on the line, I can't afford to let you keep hiding things. Tell me the truth now and I'll believe you. I can't promise I'll still be able to do the same later.

Spencer swallows around the lump in his throat and stares down at Morgan's hands on his wrists. They're so different from his. Dark where he's pale, calloused where he's smooth and soft.

It hadn't taken long before he'd heard Morgan's story. It had surprised Spencer when he had found out that a black man was the sheriff. Yes, slavery had been done away with over twenty years ago, but it was still unheard of, especially in a small Texan town. But exceptions could be made, especially when the man in question had saved the life of the wealthiest woman in town. Despite her odd ways, most of Beayue was plenty fond of Emily Prentiss, none more so than the then sheriff, David Rossi. He'd been deputized before the day was over, and, when Rossi decided he'd rather be filling shot glasses than loading shotguns, he had seemed like the logical choice to take over.

Spencer shifts his wrists, twisting them just a bit, and Morgan's grip is loose enough that the rough pads of his fingers don't hamper the movement. Nothing says that Spencer has to tell the whole truth. All he'd have to do is tell Morgan that he came out west because of love gone wrong. Maybe drop Lila's name just for good measure. He has the luxury of hiding his differences in a way that Morgan never could have. Morgan won't press him, he knows that. But he doesn't want to lie. Not to Morgan, who's only ever treated him fairly.

Not to Morgan, who, with every passing day, he's more convinced he's falling in love with.

* * *

Dave's holed up in one of the saloon's back rooms going over the figures for the past month's expenses. He's got a few hours before the main room will start to fill to get it all done. Maybe four if he pushes it and waits until Anderson sends Penelope back to get him because he can't handle all the orders on his own anymore. Dave chomps reflectively on one of the expensive cigars that Emily had given him the Christmas before and makes a few scratchy notes next to a long column of numbers.

The room doesn't have a window and the cigar smoke curls lazily in the air, dimming the already weak light from his oil lamp. The numbers swim and blur together. If he were a less vain man, he might look into getting himself a pair of those fancy eyeglasses, but he isn't. Besides, it's not as if he spends that much time hunched over pages of tiny numbers. No, usually he can rope Reid into helping.

Of course, the Doc being in the jail makes that a bit difficult right now, but maybe if he phrased it the right way? Something about giving him something to do so that he doesn't go batty locked up in that cell? Dave taps his finger against the side of his fountain pen, sputtering out a curse around his cigar when ink splatters across his paper. He's too busy trying to blot the mess to look up when the door creaks open, but he assumes it's the Harris boy with his dinner and nods absently at the table next to him. "Just put it down anywhere."

"What exactly am I supposed to be putting down?" The amused voice is decidedly more cultured and feminine than Harris' cracked tenor, and Dave's head whips up. Emily is leaning back against the closed door, her light tone betrayed by the serious glint in her dark eyes. She's dressed simply in a plain cotton blouse and a twill riding skirt. The fact that the front panel is still buttoned back so that her skirt still looks more like pants than anything else tells him that she probably came straight here after coming in from a ride through her property. He vaguely remembers her saying something earlier about branding cattle.

He's frozen for a second just from looking at her-how embarrassing to be so easily stunned by a girl nearly half his age when he's always prided himself on his skill with women-but recovers quickly, jumping to his feet to offer her a seat. "I was expecting Harris. He's usually in here to pester me with that swill he calls food around this time."

Emily waves away the chair he pulls out for her, choosing to pace the narrow room instead. "I heard about the Jenkins boy and Reid. There must be something you can do?"

Dave sinks back down onto his chair and tugs on his goatee with a frown. Emily leans her hip against the edge of his desk, bracing her hand on top of the paper he had been studying before she came in, and stares at him with those wide, trusting eyes. He has no idea where she got the idea that he can fix all her problems, but he'll be damned before he tells her that he can't and risks her turning her gaze on someone more deserving. Instead, he reaches out and covers her slim hand with his, squeezing lightly.

"I know you're fond of the boy and I don't think he's guilty any more than you do, honey, but Morgan has to follow procedure on this one. There's a judge who owes me a favor who'll give Reid a fair trial if it comes to that. I can send word to him as soon as the telegraph office opens up in the morning, but, beyond that, it's out of my hands."

Emily smiles sweetly and perches on his lap. Her arms circle his neck, her long legs crossed primly at the ankle, and she peers at him through her eyelashes. "Surely that's not all you can do. Morgan respects and admires you, David. I'm certain he wouldn't mind a little guidance from you on this case?"

"Emily..." David trails off helplessly, his fingers curling into the fabric at her waist. Emily rests her forehead against his, their noses bumping familiarly and their lips just a breath apart. All he can see is her eyes-huge, liquid brown filling his field of vision. Her arms tighten around him and his hands slide up her sides, then smooth down the curve of her back to rest at the swell of her hips.

"Dave," she says quietly, "If you don't try to find the real killer, then I will. And I shouldn't need to remind you that I lack your experience in this sort of thing and will probably end up getting myself killed in the process, which I know you don't want. So really, it would be in your best interests to just agree to offer to help Morgan."

Before he can answer, there's a faint rattle and creak as the door starts to swing open. Emily doesn't make any move to get off his lap, but she does pull back and drop her arms from around his neck, folding her hands demurely on her lap. Dave snatches his hands off of her right as Harris walks in, a tray balanced on one hand. His lips part in surprise and his eyes go wide as he glances between the two of them. Dave sighs and frowns at Emily, who just smiles as she finally stands up. She sashays over to the door, patting Harris' shoulder soothingly when he nearly fumbles the tray. This just seems to make him more flustered and he shifts uncomfortably, his eyes fixed somewhere over her left shoulder.

"Don't mind me," she says with a grin. "I was just about to leave. Dave?"

Dave stops glaring at Harris long enough to arch an eyebrow at Emily. "Yes?"

"Think about what I said. And maybe try to get Mr. Hotchner involved too? I've overlooked the missed rent payments because of that nasty business with his family, but what use is having an ex-US Marshall right here in town if he spends all of his time drunk? This might be good for him." Dave opens his mouth to answer her-maybe point out that he never actually said he'd help with the investigation-but she's already turned back to Harris with a wide, you'll-do-what-I-tell-you-and-like-it-because-I'm-Emily-Prentiss-and-I-own-this-town-so-what-I-say-goes smile.

"Be a dear and do me a favor, Harris. After you've finished serving Dave his supper, run by the kitchen at the boarding house. I've told the cook to set aside a plate for Dr. Reid, but I need someone to take it to him. You wouldn't mind doing that for me, right?" Harris makes a strangled, croaking noise and Emily smiles again, oozing the charm her mother had been famous for. "I knew you wouldn't. Thank you, Harris."

With one last wave back at Dave, she sweeps out of the room. Dave watches her go with an appreciative smile. "That's one hell of a woman. Possibly the finest I've ever met."

Harris nervously clears his throat and sets the tray down on the edge of Dave's desk. "She scares me, sir."

Dave laughs loudly and claps him on the shoulder. "That's how you know she's well bred. A truly classy lady should always make you feel like you've done something wrong."

"If you say so," Harris says with an uncertain smile.

"I do, kid. Someday you'll meet a girl who puts the fear of God into you and you'll see what I mean." Dave folds up his papers and pulls the tray closer to him. When Harris moves to leave, he catches him by the elbow and hands him the bundle of papers. "Since you're going by the jail anyway, drop this off with the good doctor. Just tell him I'd consider it a favor if he'd give them a look over. It's not like he has anything better to do."

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